


Blood's Broth

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and harpsichords, Comfort Objects, Dessert & Sweets, Dessert-based seduction, Facial Hair, Ficlets, Fine wines, Fluff, Leather Hanni, M/M, Motorcycle fetish, Passing reference to child death, Season/Series 01, Sex Dreams, Symptoms of a panic attack, Unrelated and non- sequential chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Unrelated ficlets of pure fluff. Rated E for one naughty chapterCh 1. Hannibal is a weekend rider. Will finds out.Ch 2. Will loses a beloved comfort object. Hannibal helps. Sort of.Ch 3. Hannibal grows a porn 'tache. Will hates it.Ch 4. Will is dealing with the aftermath of a crime scene. Hannibal actually helps.Ch 5. Accident involving passionfruit mousse.Ch 6. Éclairs.Ch 7. Will sees Hannibal laugh. It kind of messes him up.Ch 8. The dirty dream (Rated E).Ch 9. Fine wine and overactive imaginations.Ch 10. The drunken kiss.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd deleted this and my other "Hannibal" works a few weeks ago. But I missed them greatly. Here they are again.

It's Saturday morning and the sparkly late autumn day is armored in light frost. The dogs are walked, the chores are done and now Will fidgets on the edge of his bed. He stares at the book on his nightstand. The borrowed first edition of "The Divided Self" lies there like the perfect excuse. He finished re-reading it last night. He really ought to return it.

"Anytime, Will," Hannibal had said after their last dinner together. Will knows better by now than to chalk up the invitation to mere decorum.

After some frowning and lip chewing, he grabs the book, gets in his car and drives to Baltimore.

\---

Before he even pulls up into the driveway, Will knows he's miscalculated. He should have called ahead. The irrefutable evidence of a visitor stands on the curb in front of Hannibal's house.

The black Ducati is nestled on a bed of frosted fallen leaves. It gleams at Will like an exquisite insect.

Will pulls over the other side of the street and gawks through the windshield. His brain is battling it out: on one side of the court, a boyish desire to touch an unattainable toy; on the other, a dozen plausible manifestations of the motorcycle's owner. A younger man or woman, most likely, with tastes wilder than Hannibal's, though equally expensive. Is the bike a gift? Is Hannibal spoiling a newly acquired lover? Green bile churns inside Will at the thought, unpleasant and unformed.

He should really turn around and head home, but is stricken by the sudden desire to feel the bike's engine and fine leather seat for residual warmth. He gets out of the car and stalks closer, fingers itching inside his gloves. It may only be the cold, but he shivers with the fear or promise of being discovered.

"Will?"

Will's hand jumps at his side. He looks up. When his mouth goes slack, it brings forth not a greeting but an uncouth, inarticulate noise.

Hannibal is striding forth from his doorway. He's pulling up the asymmetric zipper of his black leather jacket and pressing closed the two silver buttons at its collar. His pants match the jacket. Both are shiny, smooth and sturdy. Both are tailored, Will notes despite himself, as finely — as intimately — as any of Hannibal's suits. Somehow the black motorcycle boots, with their hard chrome buckles, are even worse.

"Good morning. This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Hi. I thought —" Will manages and cannot for the life of him remember why he'd driven all the way out here in the first place.

"That I had visitors?" Hannibal says, having given Will adequate seconds to finish his sentence. He smiles and retrieves a pair of gloves from his pocket. His hair falls in straight wisps over his forehead, unmoored from its usual slick orderliness. He smooths it back with a newly leather-clad hand. Will feels like he's under siege.

"As it happens, the motorcycle is mine. Judging by your expression, this has given you something of a mild shock. Well," Hannibal says and splays out his arms like a martyr, mouth still softened by a half smirk of amusement. "Will I do?"

"Turn," Will says abruptly and watches, helpless, as the word drifts away from him on a puff of steamed breath before he can stuff it back in his mouth. "Err, I mean —"

But slowly, Hannibal does as he's told. Will cannot look away. "Yeah," Will swallows and stares down at his feet. "Yeah, you'll do."

"I often ride at weekends. Today was too fair a day not to indulge in an escape, if only for a few hours. Perhaps you might join me? I have a spare helmet in the garage."

The open road and the warming whip of icy wind; the fire and purr of a fine engine; Hannibal's body heat soaked into soft leather, held beneath Will's hands.

Will already knows the answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Will has turned the house inside out looking for it. He knows where he'd put it last: in with the dirty socks and underwear for its bi-annual laundering. Since it's gone missing his palms have gone damp and his throat has become uncooperative to normal breathing. 

When he's run out of dusty corners and rarely opened drawers to tear apart, he turns a loaded glare at the dogs. Zoe is the one with the sock-stealing habit: a likely culprit.

"Did you take it? Where is it, Zoe? Come on, show me," Will says and adds, under his breath: "Please."

Zoe trots guiltily to the door. Outside, she zeroes in on a spot at the edge of the porch and flops down next to it. Will flings himself down and rummages furiously through the weeds and the mud. He finds one dog-chomped sock. And nothing else.

He barely sleeps for three days.

\---

He still remembers the Goodwill store. He was six. Or was it seven? His father had taken him to buy school clothes.

"Go and pick out some shoes, Willy," his father had said. He'd pointed Will at three large hypacages in the middle of the store and headed off to the electronics section.

The metal crates were almost as tall as Will and brimmed with their respective contents. One held a pile of gently worn children's shoes; another contained undesirable toys and board games. The third was a swirling mountain of colorful cloth. Will went straight for crate number three.

He closed his eyes and stuck his arms into a tangle of polyester ties, never-to-be patchwork quilts and ladies' lace. He fished out item after item for examination, imaged the people each had belonged to. A polka dot bow tie. A sole nylon stocking, creamy white. A kitchen towel sewn with applique ducks. He wondered if every single one of these treasures had been owned by someone now dead.

On his last dive his tiny fingers sunk into softness.

Will tugged and tugged until he held it between his hands: a non-descript square of cloth, no bigger than a dinner napkin. It was the color of chocolate soft serve ice cream, and so silky and shimmering that it ran over Will's fingers like summer-warm water.

Everything else Will had pulled from the crate had had form and purpose. The soft scrap of cloth held no answers and had no story to tell. Will couldn't imagine how something so fine and mysterious had found its way into a Goodwill store in a small town in Georgia.

Years later, he'd guessed that it might have come from the cashmere lining of some expensive coat, perhaps salvaged from the wardrobe of a wealthy, exotic and long-dead relation.

"Did you find some shoes, son?"  

Will remembered how he'd jumped at the sound of his father's voice. But by then he'd already stuffed the cloth into his pocket.

\---

Will feels as if two small weights have been suspended from the dark circles under his eyes. A bigger one hangs inside his chest, like a bag of saline water ready to burst.

"Will?"

"Huh?"

Will stares up at Hannibal, who is sat in the office chair opposite, inquisitive.

"I said: you are usually more willing than this to discuss your sleeplessness and its possible causes."

Will shakes his head. He can't bring himself to confess it. How would that sound? _I miss clutching it in my hands and burying my face into it. I miss its texture and smell and the fact that it was always there._

"If I tell you, will you — just promise not to push for details, okay?" Hannibal's lips purse slightly. He nods.  
  
"I lost something."

"An object? Something dear to you."

It's Will's turn to nod.

"Yeah. Something I'd had for a long time."

"A vanished keystone of your identity. Has its disappearance left a void?"

WIll drops his face into his hands, doesn't answer. More than that, he thinks. He's been robbed of a tender and familiar constant in a rough and unsteady world.

"Will," Hannibal says, leaning forward in his chair. "Grief need not be reserved for the loss of living things."

Grieving for a scrap of cloth. Will doesn't look up, waves the subject away with one hand. After long seconds, Hannibal makes a small noise of acceptance.

"Let's move on. We can return to the matter later in the hour, should you feel ready."

\---

It's the following week, on his way out of his session, that he spots it next to his jacket on Hannibal's coat rack. Beneath Hannibal's own coat where it hangs today, uncharacteristically, with his patients' outerwear.

It seems uncanny, impossible. Will has to silently count to ten before he can reach for his jacket and give himself an excuse to brush his hand against it: a cashmere scarf the color of chocolate ice cream. When his fingertips skim the fabric, he's choked up by the familiarity.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

Hannibal's voice from across the office nearly makes Will jump. He's back in the Goodwill store, small and covetous, afraid and ashamed. Hannibal steps closer. "It's a pity I will have to return it."

Will turns to face Hannibal, clutching his jacket with both hands. If he manages to keep them to himself, he may just swat away the tiny voice in his head that's telling him to snatch the scarf and run. "What's wrong with it?"

"It was an impulsive purchase," Hannibal says and reaches past Will to slide the scarf from its peg. "As it turns out, the color doesn't quite compliment any of my coats."

Will follows Hannibal's movements, drowning in the need to touch. He watches the smooth fabric fold and flow over Hannibal's hands.

"Perhaps you might accept it? I'm unlikely to find a suitable exchange in any case. And you do seem rather taken by it."

\---

The house is still and warm, lit solely by the lamp on Will's bedside table. The dogs are snoring and the rain mutters gentle things to the night outside.

Will sits cross-legged on his bed. His eyes are closed. The scarf lies on his pillow. Will's palms reach out blindly to brush and knead the fabric; they dive between its folds to warm themselves there, then bring it up to his face, like water from a well. The scent isn't the same, but still familiar in other, comforting ways.

Tonight Will may actually sleep for a few hours. The stampede of terrors will be held back by the soft cordon of Hannibal's gift. Like its lost predecessor, it is strange and unexpected and solely for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Hannibal the type of person to break into Will's house and steal his security blanket only to replace it with one of his own? LOL, you tell me.


	3. Chapter 3

"You seem distracted, Will."  
  
"Yeah, no, it's – it's nothing. Can we carry on?"

"Of course."

There is no way in hell Will is going to say anything. It was one thing for Hannibal to complain about his terrible aftershave. It is quite another thing for Will to point out an outright _change_ in Hannibal's appearance. That would imply... preference.

And Will would strongly prefer it if Hannibal's freshly grown moustache fell off his face and scurried off back to whatever hairy hell it had spawned from.

\---

It sprung up from one session to another. Will had left Hannibal clean-shaven one evening and returned two weeks later to find his face infested with two bristly strips of hair. They had sprouted and thickened out with disturbing speed. Now they sat, slanting, greying and still patchy in places, over Hannibal's lips.

Will nearly flinched.

"You have a..." he'd muttered in lieu of a greeting and waved a finger over his own upper lip, as if pointing out a splotch of uneaten soup. "It's new."

"I do. And it is." Hannibal had said, smiled and added nothing more. Will opened his mouth once but could think of no way of furthering the subject that didn't involve begging Hannibal to seek out the nearest razor.

\---

Over the next few weeks Hannibal's moustache grows and grows and so does Will's torment. Various things add to his ordeal. The flecks of grey in the 'tache are dyed. The hair is greased and stiffened with the same pomade that holds Hannibal's coiffure hostage. Once, Will sees a tiny bone-colored moustache comb resting on Hannibal's desk. He wants to cry.

Hannibal's visit to Quantico is the last straw. Jack offers them both cappuccinos and before Will can intervene, Hannibal is dipping his latest facial accessory in milk froth. Will's brain rings from his silent screams.

Will wakes up one morning thinking about Hannibal's moustache and decides he's had enough. He forms a plan.

\---

For the first two minutes of their session, they don't say a word. Hannibal eyes Will with a cool detachment that betrays nothing. Will's opening salvo in this standoff is painfully obvious.

"Is this a conversation we're having, Will?"

Will had wanted to feel smug and clever. Instead, he feels suddenly timid. Bared and self-conscious. He runs a hand over his newly shorn face, baby smooth. He knows that he must look like some high school snot.

"Maybe. I'd rather we weren't having it. If you get my drift." He feels himself turning red. "Sorry, I thought I was being stubble-- subtle. Subtle. Fuck."

Hannibal spreads a slow smile. "You needn't say anything else, Will. We understand each other."

\---

Will leaves Hannibal's office that evening light-footed with relief.

By next week the moustache will be gone. Of this Will is certain. No more stupid hair to stand between Will and...

He stops on his way out of the building and frowns, stares into the swarming pit of his unexamined thoughts. They smooth out before him into embarrassing clarity.

Hannibal does have a lovely mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

After he finishes being sick behind his car, Will slides into the driver's seat and plants his forehead into the steering wheel. He fixates on the blurry smear of its proximity.

He feels some kind of relief: physically, but also because the rare ordeal of throwing up after sifting through a crime scene makes him feel almost like a normal human being, with normal human reactions to these things. But then, he thinks to himself, this is what it takes.

"There's nothing I hate more," Beverly had said, back there. "A body bag. Size extra small."

Will had nothing to say to that. He'd been busy clinging to another kind of relief: he couldn't feel anything the killer had felt. Instead, Will saw vividly the sinkhole of grief which would soon open up beneath some despairing mother. He already knew he would flail in its mire for weeks to come.

Now he stares up and ahead, into the falling dusk. His car sits at the edge of a sprawling parking lot and if Will glances slightly to the right, into his rearview mirror, he'll see at its opposite end the yellow of the police tape, the perverse carnival of siren lights.

The residue of his nausea has company already: a throbbing pain inside his skull, a racing heart, and a phantom feeling that blood and dirt have caked his limbs and dried there into a brittle crust.

He gropes for his phone, as for a lifeline. "Good evening, Will. What can I do for you?"

"Sorry. I know it's late. Um," Will pinches his eyes shut, grips the wheel with his free hand. "Don't suppose you do walk-up appointments?"

"I'm afraid not. And my schedule is full until our usual session. Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah— no. Not sure."  
  
"Where are you, Will?"  
  
"Crime scene. It's bad."

"I see."

Will swallows. His fingernails jab and pick at the wheel. "She couldn't have been more than seven. For fuck's sake."

Silence from Hannibal. The handful of seconds drag and drag.

"I see. If you are within driving distance, perhaps you might join me for dinner? It should be ready for eight o'clock."

\---  
"Please, come in."  
  
Hannibal's habitual welcome dials down Will's racing heart by a few beats. His coat is taken. He's ushered into the warmly-lit drawing room, handed an aperitif and offered a seat.

It ought to do the trick, this overload of easy ambience, but Will won't sit down and drains his drink too fast. He paces, picks up objects for examination, pokes about every nook like an overwrought bloodhound. The room is just another scene to sift through. Everything is evidence: the soft clink of ice in his glass, the scents coming from Hannibal's kitchen, the relaxed set of Hannibal's shoulders as he watches Will, hands slotted into his pockets. Will pauses only briefly, to gawk at Hannibal's socked feet. Hannibal speaks then, at last.

"When was the last time you fished, Will?"  
Will's eyes travel from the argyle socks to Hannibal's face.

"I thought— Aren't you gonna make me talk about what I saw? The case? You know, how I feel about it? Or are we going for the old distraction technique?"

"Come," Hannibal says, ignoring the deluge of questions. He extends an arm of invitation towards the harpsichord sat in the corner of the room. "Sit with me and tell me about the fishing."

Hannibal moves towards the lacquered instrument and settles on the bench. He braids his hands in his lap and gazes sidelong at Will, expectant. After a moment, Will takes a cautious step forward.

Everything about Hannibal radiates with a kind of satisfied solitude. Sat on the bench beside him, posed alike and proximate, Will feels caught in its glow. He's never heard Hannibal play. Anticipation and curiosity spring up in him and distract him just enough to reply.

"It was last month. A Saturday. What do you want to know? Where I was? What I caught?"

"Describe, as you recall them, the finer impressions. The sound of the water. The quality of the air."

Hannibal presses the tip of his index finger into a single key. The note rises: pure and long, then fading. It siphons memories from some well in Will's mind.

"It was morning. The stream was fast, really going for it. Not powerful. Just... determined. Steady."

Hannibal's left hand lifts and its fingers join the index. They rise and fall against the claviature, a repeating wave of sound, neither joyous nor mournful. Steady.

"The clouds were thick, rolling. I could see their shapes reflected in the water. It wasn't like — They weren't racing the stream. They went by at their own pace. Nice and leisurely."

Hannibal's right hand joins the left and the higher notes smooth over the keys, softer and meandering, distinct from the lower motifs.

"There was a breeze. It would pick up, nearly blow my hat off, then disappear. Like the breath from some giant lung. Coming and going."

Hannibal's hands answer and the notes breathe like the breeze. For a fleeting moment, Will cannot tell whether Hannibal is putting the music into the harpsichord or taking it out. But then memory and melody flow into one, Will's eyelids flutter against the blur of Hannibal's fingers, then fall closed.

\---

"Will."

Will jerks and bumps his temple against Hannibal's shoulder. He must have slumped against it. Still half-asleep, he has the absurd desire to brush at the spot on Hannibal's waistcoat where his head had drooped. He looks up to find Hannibal's face lit with a gentle mirth in the room's mellow light.

"Sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean to do that," he mumbles.

"Do not apologize." Hannibal's hand falls over Will's, a single warm pat of reassurance. "I didn't wish to wake you, but I must attend to the oven. Will you eat?"

Will nods. His own hand flexes under the impression of Hannibal's warmth, then reaches up to move above the keyboard, as if to draw out an echo of the melody it had formed. He frowns.

"Hey, um."

"Yes, Will?" Hannibal says, rising from the bench.

"The case. That little girl. You didn't want to hear about it. Did you?"

When Will looks up, Hannibal's face is a blank. "If you would join me in the kitchen. Dinner is nearly ready."

Will nods again. "Sure."  
  
He closes the keyboard, stands, and follows Hannibal out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "putting music in / taking music out" thing is blatantly stolen from Ian McKellen, who once thus described watching Maurizio Pollini play Beethoven's late piano sonatas.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

With a twist of Hannibal's wrist the stainless steel ring sinks into the sheet of yellow sponge cake. Another twist, and then the two cake medallions are gingerly lifted onto a palette knife and placed in two flat-bottomed, glass dessert dishes, which they fit perfectly. Of course they fit perfectly, Will thinks. He watches Hannibal's hands throughout the cake transfer, half-aware that he's chewing on one of his cuticles.

A small glass bowl is next to take center stage. It holds a liquid that Will could readily name if he were asked. Dark red. Faintly thick. Hannibal must notice the emergence of a worried frown because Will is offered the bowl for an appeasing sniff. He breathes in too hard and the floral-citrus scent suspended in alcohol goes straight to his head.

"Oh, um. Wow. Not what I expected. Isn't passion fruit supposed to be orange? This stuff looks like congealed blood."

"Indeed, most of the commonly eaten varieties are yellow-orange in color. But my own garden plays a happy host to passiflora caerulea, or the bluecrown passion flower, the fruit of which yields a pleasing crimson pulp. It grows well even in this climate. The fruit itself is sweet but bland, which is why, to make the liqueur, I macerate the pulp together with its more acidic relatives."

"How the hell do you find the the time..." Will mutters, mostly to himself. He looks away and pictures it for a moment: Hannibal gutting his way through a heap of the soft fruit, small sharp knife, fingers red and slick with fragrant innards.

Hannibal dabs the cake rounds with a pastry brush soaked in the liqueur, turning them a light orange. "The genoise sponge is the scaffold. And here is the main structure." Another bowl, this one holding mounds of cream, again a pale orange. Hannibal tilts the bowl slightly towards Will for closer examination. "Maracuja mousse. A common and indulgent Brazilian dessert. Cream, sweetened condensed milk, passion fruit purée."

Will swallows, licks his lips. The fresh, sunny scent wafts closer when a silver serving spoon, guided by the grace of Hannibal's hand, layers the mousse into the dessert bowls.

"And now to finish." Hannibal decorates each bowl with a tiny sprig of mint and three passion fruit seeds coated in red pulp: miniscule bloody blossoms. 

Their work done, Will is free to stare at Hannibal's hands, resting now against the kitchen counter: the topography of veins, bones and tendons, the long fingers that never seem to falter, all on display.

"These will set in the refrigerator while we sit down to our dinner," Hannibal says, then pauses to take stock of Will's expression. Will avoids the eye contact, not entirely sure himself what his face might be showing.

"Unless perhaps you'd like a preview of the coming attraction?" Hannibal asks.

When Will looks up to answer, Hannibal is already guiding a small spoon of cream across the counter, towards Will's mouth.

"Oh, I —" 

But he can't say more, because he's wrapping his lips around the offered treat. The silky sweetness dissolves on his tongue and floods his mouth with perfumed zest.

"Oh my God, so good," Will groans, a wholly involuntary outburst he forgets to be embarrassed about.

He's giving the spoon another pass with his lips when he sees it: a small, stray dollop of the cream, caught on Hannibal's thumb.

In fractions of a second, Will's brain whips up a flurry of rationale for what he'll do next. It's not right for Hannibal's elegant hand to be messy like this. And Will wants more of the delicious mousse. And Will isn't normal and does stupid things.

He closes his eyes, leans in closer and flicks his tongue over Hannibal's thumb.

Will wishes he were a normal person. He could laugh now, maybe apologize and carry on with their conversation about fruit or pastry or Will's broken head. Instead, he stops breathing and stares helplessly at Hannibal, who's yet to remove his hand from the proximity of Will's mouth.

Hannibal watches Will with bright and steady eyes. At least he's breathing, Will thinks. Hannibal's chest is rising and falling slowly, stretching the pale blue cotton of his shirt the same way the moment is stretching between them.

When the tip of Hannibal's thumb slides over his lower lip, Will's breath breaks from him in a stutter. He licks after the trace taste of tart sweetness and skin.

"You'd missed a bit, Will."  
  
"Yeah. I did," Will manages and drops his gaze.  
  
"A little more?"  
  
Hannibal's hand falls away and his thumb swipes slowly through the silver bowl.  
  
"Yes." Will swallows, wets his lips again. "Yes, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passiflora caerulea grows like a mofo here in the UK. It's got beautiful flowers and its leaves have traces of cyanide, lol.


	6. Chapter 6

Will begins to worry almost as soon as he sets foot in Hannibal's office. Hannibal appears to be, in his own way and for lack of a better word, giddy.

He greets Will too quickly. He's removed his jacket and his hair is a bit more unmoored than usual, almost boyish.

And he seems way too eager to get back behind his desk, on which rests a conspicious black box, tied with a white satin ribbon. Hannibal's fingers fuss and dance about the box, as if he couldn't wait for Will to take notice of it.

"I took a late lunch today. On my way back, I stopped by Le Cygne Farci. Do you know it?" Hannibal asks.

Will doesn't, but he's seen a very similar box in the break room at work. Beverly had brought it in. Will found her making ungodly, gluttonous noises while demolishing a lemon tart which the box had contained. She refused to share it.

"Some kind of French bakery, right?"

"Yes. The only one in Baltimore deserving of that label. Georges, the proprietor and maître pâtissier, is an acquaintance. He knows too well my weakness for these."

"For?" Will raises an eyebrow.

In answer, the box is divested of its ribbon and opened with some flair. Hannibal nudges it towards Will, who leans in for a better look.

The box is lined with delicate, embossed tissue. Within, perfectly aligned and cradled on silver cardboard boats, recline four large éclairs. Each is veiled by a smooth gleaming fondant of varying colors. Each one has discharged from its tip a pert dollop of cream.

While Will stares at the éclairs, trying to remember the last time he had what can honestly be described as a meal, he hears the clink of tableware. Hannibal has produced two small china plates. Will should have serious concerns about anyone who keeps porcelain in their desk, but he really can't judge. The meal he was trying to remember was a can of chili eaten cold over his kitchen sink.

"Please, Will. Choose one."

Will's stomach grumbles, as if on cue. "Are you sure?"

"Certainly. It's not often I enjoy un goûter these days, even less frequently in company."

"Goo— sorry?"

Hannibal smiles and lifts one pastry onto a plate, the one Will had timidly pointed to and assumes is coffee-flavored. He mounts the dark chocolate éclair onto his own plate.

"Un goûter. An after-school snack enjoyed by children in France. As a boy in Paris, I always looked forward to it. And éclairs were my afternoon delight of choice."

Will's pastry almost slides off his plate. No. Nope. Hannibal's English is flawless, but he can't possibly know what "afternoon delight" implies in common parlance. He stops himself from saying something by taking a massive bite of the éclair.

Hannibal, meanwhile, seems content to merely fondle his chocolate fondant with light fingers. He's reclined in his chair and his eyes fix on the plate's contents, a bit distant, a bit misty.

"A patissier on Rue de Rivoli knew my preference for the larger specimens. He would reserve two or three for me especially, despite the afternoon rush of school boys eager for the plumpest, freshest puffs. The man was a master of his craft, although Georges at Le Cygne cannot be faulted for his efforts."

Will's mouth stops mid-bite. He blinks.

"Three? That's, uh, impressive. I don't think I could manage three whole ones. I usually have two long johns at most before I feel sick."

Hannibal doesn't seem to hear him. He's taken to circling the éclair's cream entry point with one fingertip. "On particularly indulgent afternoons I'd conquer an entire box." Hannibal's smile when he looks up is almost conspiratorial. Anything more and he'd be winking at Will. "Youthful stamina."

Something about Hannibal's boyhood recollections is beginning to sit unwell with Will, like too much pastry cream. He fails to see what teenage stamina had to do with the consumption of filled choux puffs.

"Of course the clean-up was abominable and the crumbs in one's trousers afterwards a nuisance, but both were ultimately worth the pleasure."

Will hides his rising blush behind another huge bite. He's holding his awkward brain fully accountable for the images it is currently producing in abundance. The pastry cream is smooth and cool on his tongue and he chews slowly, eyes fixed firmly on his plate, to keep from talking.

"I missed these when I moved to Italy," Hannibal adds, holding up his plate for fond examination. "The native cannoli were a poor substitute. Far too fragile. Thankfully, by then I'd learned enough of the pastry arts to make my own éclairs. Well?" Hannibal nods towards the box. "What do you think?"

Will swallows and stares at Hannibal. He feels tingly. His blood is pooling into places in his body it really shouldn't. Hannibal still hasn't taken a bite. Will leans over the box and points at the two remaining éclairs.

"What do I think? I think I can get a whole one in my mouth in one go."

Hannibal's mouth spills into a smile, eyes sparkling with such intensity that Will has to shift in his seat and adjust all that blood.

"Yes. Shall we both try?" Hannibal asks.

"Yeah. You first. I wanna watch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is @emungere's fault](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169226/chapters/6881852).
> 
> I have four more chapters planned but there'll be a bit slower in coming. Glad you all have enjoyed the six thus far.


	7. Chapter 7

Will is making his way down the hallway towards Jack's office when he sees them: Hannibal and Jack, shaking their good-byes. Will is just out of range when he hears something gruff and familiar from Jack, then a pat on Hannibal's shoulder, and then Hannibal — Hannibal laughs.

Will doesn't hear as much as sees, through freshly cleaned glasses, the solemn planes and stoic angles of Hannibal's face flare out like a firework into mirth-creases and teeth galore. A light ripple of a chuckle through the immaculate suit, a slight tilt back of the head, and then it's done.

Will finds he's stopped dead in his tracks. After a moment, he also notes that his mouth has gone slack.

Hannibal departs Jack's company and Will begins creeping down the hallway again.

"Hello, Will."  
  
"Hi."  
  
"See you tomorrow, as scheduled?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll be there."

Will is gifted a parting nod and a smooth, courteous smidgen of a smile.

By the time he reaches Jack, something is bubbling thick and rancid inside Will. It comes up to the surface in the shape of a pressing question.

"What did you say to him just then? To Dr. Lecter."

"What's that?" Will's question whooshes right over Jack's head. "Come on, you're late. Let's go look at the case file."

\----

Will's eyes are fixed on the curtains in Hannibal's office. He's counting up and down the ladder of red and white panels. He feels sullen and his head hurts. The weight of his day is pressing down on his skull.

"My last therapist said I was socially anhedonic. He kind of left it at that."

"Some of my less perceptive colleagues find labels convenient things to dispense. Deriving no pleasure from pleasing others isn't necessarily a symptom of the label he assigned to you."

"I didn't say I agreed with him. I just think — shouldn't I get some pleasure out of people being happy with my work?"

Hannibal makes a small, considering noise.

"You may simply not be receiving the level or type of response you need." Hannibal says and, after a moment: "Or it may not be forthcoming from the right people."

Will finally glances over at Hannibal and sees what he's always seen during their short acquaintance: a cool, flat pond. Somewhere in those depths, glowing with bioluminescence, swims Hannibal's laugh.

"What does bring you satisfaction, Will?"

"Fixing things. A good catch," Will says, and tries not to think about Hobbs.

"You find satisfaction in yourself, then. And with others?"

"When I please them, I feel relieved. It's a release of pressure. But I want—" Will frowns, hesitates. He knows there's a reason he's brought all this up. And it has nothing to do with anyone currently outside of Hannibal's office. "When I saw you yesterday, what did Jack say to you?"

Hannibal's browbone shifts minutely upward. A few seconds tick by.

"I will assume this is not a non-sequitur from you, Will."

Will shifts in his chair. "It's not."

Something twitches in the corners of Hannibal's mouth.

"Do you know any good jokes, Will?"

Despite his aching head, Will begins to feel the pull of a grin.  

"Yeah. I do. I know a great one about a dachshund and a prostitute."


	8. Chapter 8

This being a dream, everything's a metaphor. Or so dream-Will tells himself because he's standing in Hannibal's office, between Hannibal's legs.

Hannibal is enthroned in one of his armchairs, composed of fabric, flesh and stillness. Only his eyes move: they creep over Will like a current. There is no physical contact between them. The escape route gapes behind Will. Two steps back would rend the net. But dream-Will is okay with being caught like this, with being swaddled in Hannibal's presence. He must be: he's so hard it hurts.

The electric current of Hannibal's eyes moves between Will's face and the straining outline of his cock.

Dream-time streams slowly, filled with small sounds: Will's soft, shallow breaths, the tick of some unseen clock. Hannibal's words slide smoothly into the gaps between seconds.

"It's safe to do this here, Will. To touch."

Will does feel safe, and so he touches: ghost-light, his palm tracing himself through his jeans. Better still, in the safety of his dream, he can tell Hannibal exactly what he needs to hear.

_Tell me that you want to see me._

Hannibal's mouth moulds around the words Will needs to hear.

"I think you'd like to show me. And I do want to see you, Will. Very much."

It's so real, the way Will's fingers shake in reply as he fumbles with his zipper and belt. He shoves both apart and doesn't look at Hannibal's face. When he draws it out, his cock is a hot heavy weight, full of his heartbeat. Will's hand falls away, twitching at his side, wanting so much to stroke. But something else will feel better than fucking into his fist while Hannibal - immaculate, elegant and perilously close Hannibal - watches.

_Tell me what you see._

The words that follow are better than any caress.

"You're lovely like this. So flushed and wet, so turned on by being seen. You must ache with it. Your restraint is admirable. But it's not modesty that now keeps you from going further, is it?"

Will shakes his head. He's panting into the gaps between Hannibal's words.

Hannibal leans forward, a mere inch. 

"It's the desire to draw this out. To make this last." Will nods once, jerkily. "So tease yourself for me, Will. As lightly as you can stand it."

They feel so good, those little loose strokes, those teasing fingertip tugs. On a sigh, Will circles the ridge of his cockhead and watches a drop of pre-come drip down, dream-time slow.

Hannibal extends a palm. He catches the offering. He collects the specimen and slicks it slowly between thumb and forefinger. He lifts both to his nose and inhales.

Will forgets _admirable restraint_ and _light teasing_. He grits his teeth and fists himself hard, watching Hannibal's nostrils flare.

_Do it. Come on. Taste me._

Hannibal does. He presses Will's taste against the tip of his tongue and savours.  

"You are everywhere now. Your taste, scent and warmth, stronger with every stroke. The veil is slipping, Will. What's going to happen when you come on me? Will it drop entirely?"

Somewhere in the void of sleep Will hears himself moan. He's close now, so rough with himself, thighs, ass, balls seizure-tight with building pleasure.

_Let it drop. Catch me. Catch me with your mouth, where your words are._

When he leans in, Hannibal's face is dream-like. His tongue wets his lips. His eyes flutter closed and he opens his mouth to claim Will whole.

It is then, naturally, that Will wakes up.


	9. Chapter 9

"The 2010 Domaine de la Charbonniere is a reliably complex vintage," Hannibal says while refilling Will's glass. Will watches the wine tumble from the decanter's round belly. He's not sure about complexity, but it's certainly getting him reliably drunk.

"You didn't have to waste the rest of it on me. I mean— it's really nice."

Will is lingering in Hannibal's kitchen, ostensibly ready to leave at any minute. He's just being polite, helping to mop up the liquid leftovers. All the other guests have left. So have the caterers and the cleaners. Why is he still here? Why did he come in the first place? He hates these things. He spoke at most three words the entire evening but suddenly finds he has plenty to say.

"Most of the wine I've drunk in my life came out of a cardboard box." The tiniest tortured grimace from Hannibal. Will cannot help himself. "Usually sold in gallons. Sometimes you'd chug it straight from the little plastic spout..."

"Have you ever been to Provence, Will?" Hannibal segues smoothly to spare himself further agonies. 

"What do you think?"

"I'll take that as a no. You must go some day. Its wines and bucolic beauty aside, it's also excellent cycling country."

Will hides a grin in his third glass of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. "You know, it's kinda hard to picture you vineyard hopping in head-to-toe lycra."

That's the wine talking, with all its merry courage. Hannibal's back straightens minutely in response. "For most activities, reasonably elegant attire can be found."

Will takes a hearty gulp to hide another smile. The bouquet of cherry, dark chocolate and stewed plum that Hannibal had ascribed to the wine rushes past his taste buds, down and down to further stoke the booze stove in his stomach.

"Sorry, I just— yeah. Hard to picture." Like Hannibal fishing. Or wearing jean shorts. Or...

"For most, perhaps. But for your limber imagination?"

Hannibal, Will has taken notice, is copying him sip for sip. They're standing opposite each other across the kitchen island and their eyes meet. This now feels like a face-off.

"Fair point. Like it or not, I can picture just about anything. It's not always convenient."

"I don't mind."

"Mind what?"

Hannibal smirks above the rim of his glass. "If you picture me in Provence."

"I'm not—"

Will stares down and clutches his own glass for dear life. If he sets it down, Hannibal will top it up. Of course he sees it now, now that Hannibal doesn't mind. It comes to him like an oil painting from a life he'll never live, a window cut into the drab wall of his own existence. Summer skies, lavender fields, a table set with linen and wine and bread beneath an ancient oak tree. Bikes leaned against the side of a crumbling stone wall. A crisp white shirt worn over a new tan...

Will shakes his head and drains the wine. "Right now I'm trying to picture how the hell I'm getting home. I'm not doing a good job of that."

"The guest bedroom is yours, Will. Under one condition."

Will looks up. "Please don't reveal any other unexpected hobbies."

Hannibal's smile is almost mysterious. "We'll spare your imagination any further exertions." He strides to the fridge and retrieves a svelte bottle, its contents the color of honey. "But I do ask that you try this excellent Monbazillac."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is a sequel to the [chapter 9](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11707665/chapters/29181258)

The Châteauneuf-du-Pape has been polished off, the Monbazillac sampled, the second measure of brandy poured. Somewhere along the way Will has been transferred to the living room and eased off his increasingly liquid-like legs into the comfort of an armchair.

The conversation has been flowing as easily as the booze but now has settled into a momentary stillness. Will raises his glass and turns it to watch the firelight reflect in the amber pool of cognac. He wonders what the world would look like if he hadn't drunk so damn much and had driven back to Wolf Trap instead: the two of them, miles apart, alone in their respective homes. He imagines Hannibal much as he is in this very instant: the brandy, the fire. The silence, but for the crackle of wood freshly sacrificed to the feast of flames. He looks over and finds Hannibal is watching him with a fixed bright gaze.

Inside the silence, through the swaddling warmth of drunkness, the gaze turns Will faintly skittish. He'd better speak, and soon.

"Doesn't it ever get too quiet in here for you?"

Hannibal's eyes don't budge. "Are you asking if I ever get lonely, Will?"

Will is asking precisely that, but he can't get that word out. It carries too much weight. And to say it would likely betray more about Will than about Hannibal. And besides, he already senses he's overstepped some boundary. He tries to walk himself back. "Maybe I'm making assumptions. Maybe you're hardly ever alone."

Hannibal takes a sip of his brandy. The light from the fire whets his features to skull-like sharpness. "It doesn't get too quiet. When I am alone, I always enjoy my own company."

Will has been slowly skidding towards the sad puddle of drunken self-pity all night. He might as well step into it. "So I guess I'm intruding on something good here then."

Hannibal doesn't reassure him, as Will wants to be reassured. "Is the quality of quiet in your own home so different from mine, Will?"

Will shrugs and gestures vaguely with his hands. It's all part of the dance of walking back from the edge. "It's never really that quiet. I've got the dogs." He tips back the glass and swallows down the last burning mouthful. "Maybe real solitude is a myth anyway. There's always someone. Or something."

It's never really quiet in the company of his nightmares. Or with Hobbs paying his visits.

Hannibal releases Will from his gaze with a single nod. "Only death can bring us true solitude. And we're certainly not seeking out his company tonight."

Will laughs, a bit raspy. "I've heard people say that all conversations eventually end up on either death or sex. Maybe this is my cue to go to bed."

Hannibal smiles a small smile that mercifully softens his features with the brush of mirth. "Lest we begin discussing our love lives? Come. I'll show you to your room."

They climb the stairs together, Hannibal behind Will — insurance, no doubt, in case Will's feet falter. He's holding onto the rail with every unsteady step. His head feels heavy, too warm and oddly mournful. He's almost to the top when:

"Please know that you're not intruding, Will."

Will pauses. He doesn't want to turn back. He's worried about what expression he'll find on Hannibal's face. He stares down at his feet instead.

"I didn't mean— I just get a feeling you prefer your own company to that of others, that's all."

"Yet you're here on my insistence."

"I watched you tonight. You made the rounds. You gave everyone what they needed. This is just me getting my turn. You never really leave your own company."

With that, Will does turn and promptly slips on the step. Strong hands grip him firmly by the waist and restore his balance at once.

The world spins, then smears like watercolors outside the two hard fixed points of Hannibal's eyes. The moment stills, as it had before. Will swallows and stares at what remains of his reality. The impossible curves of Hannibal's lips are suddenly his only anchor.  
  
"Caught me," Will says softly.  
  
"Just."

"And who's gonna catch you?"

The hands at his waist do not budge. If anything, the fingers press in more tightly.

"You're the only one here," Hannibal says.

Will's world is still smudged and spinning, maybe even moreso. "I'm in no state to catch anyone."

Hannibal glides up a step, close enough that the air around Will warms a fraction. His voice when he speaks tugs at Will from the inside, like a rope beckoning a bell to ring.

"How can I show myself to be truly in your company, Will?"

Will swallows hard. He lays one shaking hand over Hannibal's, keeping the other gripped on the handrail. "I think you're about to show me."

And then all that remains of the world dissolves. Will's eyes fall closed. Warm lips slide against his own, once. They return after a beat, pursed now and pressing precise kisses from corner to corner of Will's mouth, then again and again in the center. Wet with brandy, they bid Will to open up. Will does, if only to catch his breath with a small gasp. He can't manage anything else. He may have forgotten how to do this. He may be too drunk. Or he may just want to see what Hannibal gives him.

"More," he mumbles quietly and grabs Hannibal by the shoulders. He gets it all: first a light nip on his lower lip, then Hannibal's tongue dives languidly inside. There, it teases, laps and rolls until Will's own tongue is coaxed forth, caught between Hannibal's lips and suckled so softly that he can't help a helpless little moan. He clutches at Hannibal to keep from melting completely in his mouth.

They slide apart and Will struggles to open his eyes. He sways again when he does, but is held still and steady.

"Should I have been expecting that?"

"Not at all."

Will licks his lips. The world expands again, beyond the bright dark eyes looking up at him from the step below. Somehow he feels less drunk, sharper. And even less sure of anything. "Now what?"

Hannibal reaches up and strokes his cheek, once. "Now I show you to your room."

"So that I can sleep on it, as they say?"

"So that we both can."

 


End file.
